by Howard Marks
‘Have you got no idea about security? False names and codes. I fucking told you that a hundred fucking times, and you put my fucking name on it. What you fucking think this is? Amateur night?’
‘Jim, Khan is like Mister in the Middle East. And it’s Juma, not Jim. Juma means something like Friday in their language.’
Explanations to Jim fell on stony ground.
‘Jim McCann might fucking mean Man Friday in Kabul, but in Ireland Jim McCann means it’s fucking me, the Kid. I’ll still get the nordle, but because of your fucking cock-ups, it’ll cost me an extra £500. I need it right now.’
Early the next morning, I flew back to Shannon. This time Jim was waiting at the airport. He was fired up. He took the £500 and ran, screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Wait for me in Paradise or the Shannon Shamrock. Check in as McCarthy.’
I hired a car and drove to Paradise. Marty was standing outside looking very relieved.
‘Thank God it’s you, Howard. I thought it was those Pakistanis again.’
‘Pakistanis? What Pakistanis?’
‘Two days ago, I heard a car pulling up. I thought it was you or Niblo from the IRA. The car stopped outside the gate, and two Pakistanis got out. You’d told me something about some Pakistani dope coming, and I remembered you telling me something about a pretend dead body or something coming from Pakistan, so I thought they were something to do with that, like. I thought they would either give me some dope or a coffin or something. In fact, they were selling shirts. Yeah, shirts! Then I figured you sent them as a joke. Then I thought Niblo had sent them to freak me out. Then I thought they were undercover Pakistani cops. I bought a couple of shirts off them. There they are. Not bad really for what I paid for them.’
The coincidences were beginning to get out of hand.
‘You’ve had any other visitors?’
‘No, that’s it. Everything has been as quiet as a mouse, except for the rats. Rats freak me out.’
We had a cup of tea and some egg, peas, and chips. Marty always made the best. I’d brought over a little hash, and we had a smoke. I drove back to the Shannon Shamrock and checked in as Stephen McCarthy. My mother had seriously thought of christening me Stephen, and my ancestor Patrick Marks used the surname McCarthy. I hadn’t yet graduated to using only false names that have absolutely no connection to one’s past. These were early days.
I had dozed off for a few minutes when the phone rang. It was Jim.
‘Come down right away, H’ard. Since when do antique carpets fucking rattle when you move them around?’
In the lobby, Jim was all smiles. I followed him to the hotel car park. In the middle was an unlocked, beaten-up Ford with a sack-covered cabin trunk on the back seat and a similar one in the boot, which, because of the size of the cabin trunk, had been left wide open. It stank of hashish.
‘You see, H’ard, the Kid’s done it. The Kid delivers with the grace of a Mozart concerto. I want my two grand, and another five hundred for extra expenses. And next time I don’t want my fucking name on the paperwork, and I don’t want fucking carpets that rattle, and I want some pornographic movies. But between me and you, Howard, it was a fucking good job the carpets did rattle. It convinced them they were bringing in guns. They knew they weren’t fucking carpets. You understand me, do you? Here’s the keys. Take this shit to Paradise. When do I get my fucking money?’
‘Do you still want it in Amsterdam, Jim?’
‘What the fuck use is it to me there, H’ard? You say some fucking stupid things sometimes. I want it here.’
‘I’ve got a couple of hundred on me which you can have right now. The rest will arrive tomorrow.’
‘Give it to me, and give me the keys of your car, H’ard. I’ll drive it over to Paradise in about an hour. I’ve got to see some of my people. Don’t open those fucking boxes till I get there.’
Jim tore off in my rented Volkswagen. The old Ford he’d left me was difficult to start. The gauge registered less than an eggcupful of petrol. The body of the car almost touched the ground. I drove to a nearby petrol station and was comforted to discover that most other vehicles on Irish roads also look suspicious. No one gave me a second glance on my journey to Paradise. Marty and I unloaded the car and, abiding by Jim’s instructions, left the trunks unopened. Soon the aroma of the packaged hashish filled Paradise Cottage. Jim wasn’t long. The three of us unpacked the trunks. There were two hundred pounds of the finest hand-pressed Afghani hashish. We smoked joint after joint. Marty and I giggled nervously as Jim tore around the room screaming, ‘I’ve done it. I’ve done it. The Kid’s done it.’
Marty and Jim collapsed into a deep sleep. I drove the hired Volkswagen a few miles to the nearest phone box and telephoned Graham with the good news. He was pleasantly surprised and told me that Patrick Lane would drive over right away with the balance of the money owed McCann and drive back with the hashish. Leaving the phone box, I noticed that the boot of the car was very low. I opened it. Inside were stacks of London telephone directories and boxes of plastic-covered chemicals. A little confused, I drove it back to Paradise. Jim was waiting outside the cottage door.
‘You didn’t go over any bumps, did you? That car’s full of fucking explosives.’
‘Well, take them out of there, Jim. Stick them in your wreck.’
‘What’s wrong with you? You only deal in fiction. Nordle is fiction. Fucking explosives and arms are non-fiction. That’s reality, man. I deal in non-fiction. Not this fucking hippie shit.’
He threw away his half-smoked joint into the Irish night, transferred his odd cargo of telephone directories and explosives from my car to his, and drove off.
Twenty-four hours later, Patrick Lane checked into the Shannon Shamrock. I was waiting in the lobby. I took the keys of his rented Ford Capri and drove it to Paradise while he had a sleep. Marty looked agitated and said, ‘Niblo’s just been here. He took away about twenty pounds of the hash. He said he’d be back very soon. He wants his money. And some dirty movies. He’s a bit funny, Howard.’
We stashed the rest of the dope into the car, in the front door panels, the rear panels, and under the back seat. It fitted in easily enough, but the stench was overpowering. Jim arrived.
‘Where’s my fucking money?’
‘You just took it, Jim. Twenty pounds of nordle is worth about £2,000. You’ve been paid.’
‘You can have all of that hippie shit back right now.’
He went to his car, pulled out a bag, and gave it to me.
‘That’s only about ten pounds, Jim. Where is the rest?’
‘That’s all I fucking took.’
Then I realised I had forgotten to get the money off Patrick. I tried to explain to Jim, but he was most unreceptive.
‘I’m getting it myself right now. This had better not be another of your fucking games. Wait here till I get back.’
Several hours later, Jim and Patrick arrived at the cottage. They were drunk and extremely angry with each other. Patrick had refused to pay Jim without my authorisation. Jim had threatened Patrick with Gus and other assets of the Belfast Brigade. Patrick, for the first time realising that there was a possibility of IRA involvement in the scam, had exploded. His grandfather, Patrick Murphy, a Catholic policeman in Belfast, had been murdered by the IRA. Jim said he must have deserved it. They were a hair’s breadth away from coming to blows. Patrick gave me the money. I gave it to Jim.
‘H’ard, I’m holding you personally responsible to make sure this man never comes to Ireland again. He’s got an amnesty to drive back tonight, but that’s it. I’ll be in touch. I’ll be in touch with you, brother.’
Patrick was still fuming but insisted on leaving immediately for the ferry. Within a day, Jarvis and the two Charlies had sold all the hash and had collected over £20,000. A number of people had to be paid. Given all the expenses, particularly Jim’s, no one had made a fortune. But Jim, undoubtedly, could deliver the goods. It was we who were experiencing problems sending them. We’d have to get our
act a bit more together to take advantage of this extraordinary opportunity.
On January 1st, 1972, Graham made a New Year’s Resolution. He was going to get things together and personally oversee matters in Karachi in readiness for the next load to Shannon. The intention was to do a ton, a big increase. This time there’d be no mistakes.
Marty Langford had two old art college friends who owned a car repair and sales business in Winchester. With their assistance, we examined various cars to see how much hashish could be safely stashed in each. The two-door Ford Capri was perfect. It could hold at least 200 pounds just in the rear panels and under the back seat. We bought a few. There never seemed to be any eyebrows raised when cars were paid for in cash.
There was tremendous wrangling about how the next deal would divide up. McCann was getting wise to how much money could be made in this business. Finally, it was settled that he would be paid £30 for every pound of hashish he imported.
Durrani and Raoul’s costs in Karachi amounted to £35 a pound. We would pay £10 a pound to anyone prepared to drive a stashed Ford Capri on and off the Irish Channel ferry. There would be some other small expenses. Hashish was selling in London for about £120 a pound. On a ton load, Graham and I should make £50,000 each. McCann would make more, but that was a pain we had to suffer.
Pretending to be arranging a farm-equipment salesmen’s conference, McCann rented a remote farmhouse near Newmarket-on-Fergus, about twenty miles from Limerick. Shannon airport could be seen from some of the bedroom windows. I bought a stack of pornographic films and loaded them into one of the doctored Ford Capris. I drove from London to Swansea, on to the British & Irish ferryboat to Cork, and from Cork via Limerick to the Shannon Shamrock, where a room in the name of Stephen McCarthy had been booked. I was at the check-in desk about midday when a loud Belfast accent screamed in my ear, ‘Don’t fucking bother. We can stay at the farm. We’ll go in your car. Gus has just taken mine to Dublin. We’re going to burn down the British Embassy.’
We got into the car.
‘So, how’s about you? Did the academics on Brighton seafront like the nordle the Kid brought in?’
‘They’d never heard of you.’
‘You didn’t fucking tell them I brought it in, did you? You fucking Welsh arsehole.’
‘I’m kidding, Jim.’
‘I got no time for games, H’ard. You know that. There’s a fucking war on. Last Sunday, youse fucking Brits killed thirteen innocent Irishmen in cold blood. You think you got problems, man. I’ll give you some fucking problems. And that fucking John Lennon is dead meat.’
‘What’s he done, Jim?’
‘He promised to give a free concert in Derry, and I set it all up. Now, after last Sunday, he says he won’t fucking do it. He’s just going to write a fucking song about it. We got enough fucking songs, for fuck’s sake. It makes me look bad, man. All the kids on Derry’s streets were looking forward to it. I’m sending our Brendan to John Lennon’s house in St George’s Hill, Weybridge, to burn the fucker down. No one messes with the Kid. When’s Soppy Bollocks sending the nordle? What’s the fucking hold-up? What the fuck does he think this is? Amateur night? I got things to do, man. I just got back from Amsterdam buying some guns for the Provos. That’s pressure, you understand me, a lot more fucking pressure than selling stamps and dresses.’
‘I don’t sell stamps and dresses. They’re fronts to satisfy the authorities.’
‘Fuck the authorities. Where the fuck are you at, H’ard?’
‘It’s security, Jim. It keeps them off my back. When I arrived at Cork today off the boat, I was asked what I was doing in Ireland. I said I was a stamp dealer specialising in 1922 overprints. It’s like using a false name or cover. You told me that was important.’
‘You’re right, H’ard. Security’s very important. Take one of these.’
He brought out a hand-held walkie-talkie.
‘This time we do things to military precision with the grace of a Mozart concerto. When I pick up the nordle from Shannon, I want you to be alone in the farmhouse with one of these walkie-talkies. When I’m on my way to you I’ll send you a coded radio message like “I’ve got the nordle.”’
‘What’s the point of that?’
‘So you’ll know precisely what time I’ll be delivering the nordle, you stupid Welsh cunt.’
‘Why do I have to know precisely? If I know to the nearest few hours, I’ll just stay at the farmhouse until you get there.’
‘H’ard, just do as you’re fucking told. I’ll be calling you on one of these walkie-talkies.’
Following McCann’s erratic directions, I drove us into the farmhouse grounds. The property was ideal for clandestinely stashing cars. We got out of the Ford Capri. McCann looked at it in disgust.
‘That fucking car sticks out here like a pork chop at a Jewish wedding.’
‘What did you expect me to come over in, Jim, a fucking tractor?’
‘Don’t be fucking facetious, H’ard. I told you this was a farming front operation.’
‘Well, the Ford Capri is an excellent car for hiding things. There are about fifty dirty movies under the back seat.’
‘About fucking time, Howard. I’ve been asking you for ages. Let’s take them into the house. We can watch one now.’
‘Do you have a screen and projector?’
‘Of course I fucking don’t. Since when does a farmhouse have those in it? You mean you didn’t bring any?’
‘I didn’t know you wanted to watch the movies here. You can buy them in Limerick, can’t you?’
‘I’ve told you before, H’ard, pornography is illegal in Ireland.’
‘Projectors aren’t pornographic. But if you have a problem, I’ll get one put in the next car to come on the ferry.’
‘See that you do that, H’ard. It’s important.’
I left Jim looking at the lavishly illustrated film boxes and drove to the nearest phone kiosk. I called Mandy. Graham had sent the ton load from Pakistan on Pakistan International Airways from Karachi to London, where it was booked on an Aer Lingus flight to arrive in Shannon that day. I took down the air waybill number. I went back to the Newmarket-on-Fergus farmhouse. McCann was holding up one of the 8mm pornographic films to the light trying to figure out the images. I gave him the particulars of the air waybill for the hashish load.
‘I’ll call you on the walkie-talkie at exactly 10 p.m. tonight,’ screamed Jim, and climbed into my Capri.
‘Don’t you fucking leave here, mind,’ he yelled out of the car window.
‘I can’t, Jim. You’ve got my car.’
Nothing happened at all until just after 10 p.m., when an inaudible crackling emitted from the walkie-talkie followed by a gentle Dublin accent whispering, ‘I can’t hear you, Jim. I’m not used to these gadgets.’
Then silence.
I heard vehicles in the far distance and opened the farmhouse door. Across the dark, deserted Irish landscape, I heard McCann’s voice yelling, ‘Pull the fucking aerial out, you idjit.’
My Capri was the first to pull up. Inside was an unassuming young man fidgeting with the controls of a walkie-talkie. Then a Volkswagen van pulled up. Inside was McCann, still yelling into a switched-off walkie-talkie, sitting in front of a ton of boxed-up Pakistani hashish.
‘Nothing but idjits, the fucking both of you. Let’s get these guns unloaded,’ ordered McCann.
We took the boxes into the farmhouse. McCann’s assistant drove off in the Volkswagen. Jim and I unwrapped a box. The hashish was excellent. We switched on the television. It was the news. The British Embassy in Dublin had been burned down.
‘Told you,’ said McCann.
Then it was Gardai Patrol, the Republic of Ireland’s equivalent to Crimewatch, the public’s chance to grass. A stern-faced Irish policeman appeared on the screen: ‘Some household equipment, electric kettles and toasters, have been stolen from O’Reilly’s in Sean MacDermot Street …’
‘Can you believe that, H’
ard? We’re sitting on a ton of nordle worth a few hundred grand, and the cops are looking for fucking pots and pans.’
There were matters I now had to attend to in England: sending over empty cars and making arrangements for receiving full ones. I drove to the phone box and asked Marty to drive over another Ford Capri, bringing a projector and screen. McCann would wait guarding the hashish until he arrived. I flew from Shannon to Heathrow.
Apart from the members of the Tafia, other friends of mine had agreed to drive hashish from Ireland to England for a £2,000 fee. They included Anthony Woodhead, Johnny Martin, and several other university friends and their wives. I sent two such academic couples over to Ireland to be met by Marty. I prepared the Winchester car repair shop and garage to receive and destash returning cars and flew back to Shannon.
When I arrived back at the Newmarket-on-Fergus farmhouse, two university lecturers and their spouses were sitting in the darkened living-room staring with horrified expressions at a projection screen displaying a farmgirl having intercourse with a pig. Standing just off-screen was McCann. He had his dick out and was masturbating. After vainly attempting to persuade my Oxford friends that the world hadn’t gone mad, Marty and I stashed their cars, and they set off. I flew back to Heathrow to supervise the destashing at Winchester. Graham had sensibly advised that I should no longer be actively involved in selling in London. I was already doing too much. He wanted James Goldsack to sell this load. I felt this was a bit unfair to Charlie Radcliffe, who had been instrumental in our meeting McCann and should, therefore, at least have some hashish to sell, but I went along with Graham. All 2,240 pounds of hashish were safely brought to Winchester and sold in London. I was £50,000 the richer, and everyone who had worked for me felt suitably rewarded.
My crude money-laundering structure in Oxford was cranked right up. AnnaBelinda ‘sold’ vast quantities of dresses every day. Dennis H. Marks, International Stamp Dealer, kept getting the most extraordinary good luck with ‘finds’ in his kiloware. Mythical individuals paid cash to Robin Murray Ltd., for their interior decoration. I had credit cards, life insurance, and many other trappings of an upwardly-mobile prick. To many, my parents included, I was a hard-working and successful straight businessman who had come back to his Alma Mater to make his fortune.
